You can always count on two things the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve: contemplating a juice cleanse and getting endless texts that say some version of, “What r u doing NYE?” Followed by your response of, “Dunno, what r u doin?” NYE is the most overrated night of the year. The pressure to have a night analogous to The Hangover or Can’t Hardly Wait is obnoxious. No, December 31, 2013 will probably not be the best night of your life, but trying to make it the best just makes it even worse. I just want to go to a small, relaxing party, drink a bottle of Andre’ and make out with the tallest guy near me who wears glasses.

One of the worst feelings ever is being at a NYE party, watching your friends kiss each other at midnight, and just standing there by yourself staring at Ryan Seacrest on the TV being a jackass in Times Square. Most of my friends have fiancées or husbands or wives. So when you’re at a party where everyone has the love of their life with them while you’re texting with the lawyer you met on Tinder who works out too much but you had drunken sex with one night over the summer in New York so you feel obliged to at least respond to his uncomfortable texts that say things like, “what’s shaking Melly?” it feels shitty. It shouldn’t, but it does. Fuck you, New Year’s Eve parties.

I gave up trying to make NYE something special a few years ago when I was stuck in traffic with my boyfriend at the time, on our way to a huge party. I can’t remember if it was Adam Levine’s or some other random musician’s house, but everyone I knew had planned to go there. Traffic in Los Angeles is already complete shit, but on that New Year’s Eve in 2007 it was the worst ever. I think we got to the party around one in the morning after arguing with him about why we should’ve stayed home and had to stand outside this giant gated house in the cold, calling our friend who was DJing to get us in. The party was full of semi-famous idiots doing coke and slutty girls trying to have sex with them. It was basically the pop-music version of the playboy mansion. The thought of waiting outside a stupid Hollywood party for some DJ friend of my boyfriend’s to come out and tell the bouncer to let us in makes me want to throw up on all the CD turntables in the world.

For 2012 NYE, I had just flown back from meeting my boyfriend’s parents and had no desire to go out to a party. My boyfriend at the time wanted to go to some party in Burbank, but I’d rather die than go to Burbank on NYE. He left me at his house and I spent the night watching Billy on the Street with his dog and a glass of champagne. Any other night of the year, this wouldn’t have stung as much, but because we’re supposed to have amazing evenings, my night would be considered incredibly lame. I had no one to kiss at midnight and saw everyone on Instagram having (or at least pretending to have) an amazing night.

Fuck your New Year’s Eve plans! Fuck making sure you have someone special to make out with at midnight. You know what sounds great to me? Driving two hours into the middle of nowhere with five friends, staying in a cabin, taking mushrooms, and playing Cards Against Humanity. That is the most late-twenties thing I have ever said. I might as well throw in while listening to Liz Phair or Weezer’s first album. I think I just wrote the first thirty pages of a horror movie.